Her cell rang, and Avery pulled it from her back pocket, checking the time before she answered. Already 7:00 p.m.
She didn’t recognize the number but rubbed her eyes and answered, “Hello.”
“I’m lookin’ for my boys.” An older man’s voice rumbled over the phone, clearly angry. “Did Zane drag Trace by the bar again? You know if you serve those boys, you’re serving minors. You can go to jail for that. Get one of those boys on the phone.”
Avery’s mouth dropped open. Her mind slipped gears. “Mr. Hutton? This is Avery Hart. Do you remember me? I make those apple turnovers you like.” When she got silence, she went on. “Trace went into Santa Rosa to pick up some roof shingles. I haven’t seen Zane, but I think he’s working.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl? If you’re in cahoots with those boys, you can bet I’ll be telling your parents all about it. I’m having a hard enough time keeping Zane out of trouble as it is, even with his brother running shotgun. Now send them home.”
He yelled the last and hung up with a click so loud, Avery jerked her phone away from her ear. That was an awesome benefit to old-style phones. You could still really hang up on someone.
Avery toggled her pencil between her fingers, wondering whether she should tell someone about the call. Pearl had told Avery the music therapy had improved George’s disposition, but if that was true, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been like before. On the couple of short visits she’d made to his house to drop off food, Pearl had been there, and George had been straddling zombieland. Trace had mentioned something called a sundown syndrome, but Avery didn’t remember what that was.
She dialed the sheriff’s substation and asked to speak with Zane, but he was out on patrol. She didn’t have Pearl’s number, but she could get it from Phoebe. If she could get ahold of Phoebe. That woman was busier than a corporate executive.
Avery decided not to get a handful of people upset over a harmless phone call and went back to work. By the time she’d made final cuts to the starting menu and scheduled interviews for potential employees, dusk had turned to night, and Trace still hadn’t returned.
Figuring he might have gone straight home, Avery cleaned up and double-checked all the locks on the doors. She’d just drive by their house and make sure his father was okay on her way to Phoebe’s.
She locked the front door behind her, tested it, and jogged down the porch steps to her Jeep.
“You there.”
The voice felt like a punch to her gut. Avery let out a startled sound and spun.
A shadowed figure shuffled toward her. “You there. Where do you think you’re goin’? It ain’t quittin’ time. I’ve been around long enough to know last call is two a.m. We ain’t even close, and I need a scotch and soda.”
George Hutton’s weary face came into the beam of an exterior light. With her hand to her chest, Avery exhaled in relief. “Mr. Hutton, you scared me.” She glanced behind him, searching for a car, but found the driveway empty and dark. “How’d you get here?”
“Walked, how do you think?”
His snappy tone alerted Avery to his mood. She was trying to decide how to handle him when he walked into the light. He was wearing pajamas—and nothing on his feet.
Alarm tightened her chest. Avery didn’t know what to say or not to say, uneasy about upsetting him further. She pulled out her phone again and pressed the speed dial for Phoebe.
“Get off that phone, girl,” he said, passing her to hobble up the steps, leaving behind footprints. In blood.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as Phoebe’s voice mail answered.
He tried the door. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be cursin’. Not ladylike.” He knocked on the glass as if he expected someone to answer. “Come on—open up, Joe. What’s wrong with you? You drunk again?”
Crap.
Avery disconnected and followed him to the front door. She unlocked it and held it open for him. “Looks like you might have cut your foot. I’ll take a look at that while we wait for Trace to get back.”
“Drink first.”
“Sure.” She flipped on the lights and closed the door.
He was squinting around the bar-turned-café like he’d just walked into an alien’s nightclub.
“Do you remember me, Mr. Hutton? I’m Joe’s daughter, Avery.”
His gaze turned on her. “The middle girl. Sure.” He looked around the café again, confused. “What the hell is he doing in here?”
She didn’t think he’d take the news that her father had been dead over three years very well, so she said, “Just a little renovation.” She took George’s arm and led him to a chair. “Let’s get you a seat.”
He dropped into it with a huff, then sighed. “Thank you, darlin’.”